How Does Your Garden Grow
by WhatsABriard
Summary: TDBM Secret Santa 2017. For twice-five-miles: Christmas in July, or something to do with Jean's flowers? Series of shorts centered around the Sunroom.
1. Poinsettia

_While considered by the ancient Aztecs to be symbols of purity, in today's language of flowers, red, white or pink poinsettias, the December birth flower, symbolize good cheer and success and are said to bring wishes of mirth and celebration._

Lucien arrived home early from the autopsy, the late July wind chilling him to the bone. He hoped to find Jean for a chat and warming tea, but the house was quiet and seemingly empty when he let himself in. He sought her in the sunroom, but she wasn't there either. Had been recently, as there was potting soil and various tools spread on the workbench, but she was absent.

The sunroom was a mystery to Lucien. It was humbling to admit, for a man of science, that he did not fully understand the floral alchemy that Jean achieved in there. She'd told him once, that the growing of things was the most honest work she could imagine. Her life on the farm had been difficult, but there was little more satisfying than watching the seeds sprout to life. After the loss of Christopher, leaving the farm behind had been like cleaving another part of herself. It was, Lucien thought, a blessing that she could find comfort amid the dirt and seeds, leaf and flower of his father's sunroom. He almost felt an interloper, entering her domain without her permission, but he couldn't help but check out her latest project.

It looked to be a small shrub - sturdy with big, slightly velvety leaves and bright, blood red flowers. Upon closer inspection Lucien noted the flowers weren't exactly that, but clusters of leaves themselves that were a brilliant crimson.

"Like it?" Jean asked from the doorway and Lucien couldn't quite control a little jerk of surprise. He rested his hands over the pockets on his vest and rocked back on his heels.

"It's interesting. Different. What is it?"

"A Christmas flower." Jean stepped beside him and stroked the red leaves. "They had them in one of the shops and...I hope I can keep it alive and blooming until the holidays."

"A touchy one, is it?" He looked at her out of the corner of her eye. Things had been so tentative between them since Mei Lin, and his impromptu proposal. She hadn't exactly said no...but she hadn't exactly said yes, either. She said they needed time to let the gossip settle. In any case, her lips were not pressed thin and the harsh lines around her cheeks were soft.

She bumped his shoulder, her cheeks reddening under what was obviously not his surreptitious gaze. "You're thinking awfully loud, Lucien."

"I...ah. Yes." He shook his head a little and grinned. She answered with a small smile. "A christmas flower, eh? Christmas in July, then?"

She finally dropped her gaze, squirming under his scrutiny. She felt exposed when he watched her so openly, when all of his consuming curiosity was turned on her. She felt she had no secrets, that he was able to unlock all of those little corners she'd kept bolted tight for...ages.

It was easier in the sunroom, amid her flowers, where life followed a very specific path. Her own life had been similar predestined. Even her early widowhood followed a predictable pattern. It was Lucien and his wild, wonderful, infuriating energy that had upset her carefully constructed apple cart.

She didn't really regret it, either.

"Something like that."

"Is it poisonous?" Lucien poked again at the bright red leaves, but he was looking straight at Jean, his storm-tossed eyes seeking something deeper from her. He looked at her that way often since Mei Lin left, and she felt slightly guilty leaving him hanging, despite the fact that she needed the time to collect her thoughts and feelings.

Finally she raised the hand she'd had twisted in her apron, pressing her fingers to Lucien's wrist. He followed her eyes to her finger, where the diamond and emerald engagement right glittered.

Lucien's smile was bright.

"No," Jean spoke at last, and Lucien's spit-take was almost comical before she realized what she'd said. "No, _the plant isn't poisonous_."

"Oh."

Jean waited patiently, watching Lucien glance between the poinsettia and her finger, his grin widening so that she thought his cheeks might crack.

"So…" She said at last, when she could wait no longer.

"So?"

"Are you going to kiss me, or not?"

Lucien stunned her by looking at the ceiling as though in confusion.

"Lucien?"

"You haven't by chance grown mistletoe have you?"

"Silly man," She whispered, and kissed him herself, no parasitic greenery required.


	2. Peony

Peony - _Its floral meaning points toward shame; however it is also used to signify a happy marriage as well as a happy life._

The day the divorce decree was to be finalized dawned bright and hot, as most days in January tended to be. It was decided, unspoken, that Jean would not accompany Lucien to the courthouse - they would only supply the rumor mill so much - but as he left he told her that he would be back soon and they would go out.

"I'll make reservations," He promised as he grabbed his hat from the peg. "To celebrate."

If Lucien noted the odd look on his fiancee's face, he didn't say. He simply blew out of the house with his usual gusto and a quick peck on her lips.

Jean watched him go, her hands held tightly against her stomach. Lucien, always tilting at windmills, running off full of vigor to fight his battles, never quite prepared for the consequences. She hoped he would return to her in such good spirits but somehow...she didn't think so.

Turning she went back into the house and made her plans.

The day, interminable for both of them, was nearly over by the time Lucien headed home. The sun had mostly set but it was still quite warm when pulled into the drive. The house was mostly dark and he sat for a few moments, gathering his scattered emotions. He wondered if Jean would perhaps consent to skipping the celebration and staying home for a quiet evening. He wanted to hold her close, a whiskey, and to forget the entire day in exactly that order.

"Jean?" The house was oddly silent and Jean was not in the kitchen or the front room. He felt a flare of unspecified panic when he called again."Jean?"

"Out here!" She hollered from the sunroom and the sound of her voice eased the ache beneath his sternum. A knot of emotion sat heavily in his chest, clogging his throat. At the sight of her it began to loosen and his arms and legs felt suddenly leaden, the nervous tension of the afternoon easing out of him. He had promised Jean a celebration - a night of champagne and dancing - but now he wasn't sure he had the energy.

It had been such a long day.

"Jean, would you be terribly upset if we-" He stopped short just inside the door. Jean had laid a blanket in the middle of the greenery and sat with her legs tucked under her. She gave him a small, sad smile and patted the blanket beside her.

Lucien collapsed with a groan and his shoulder bumped hers. He leaned closer, his nose brushing her ear, breathing her in. His nerves steadied further, her mere proximity a balm to the aching _thing_ squeezing his lungs. He was surrounded by her, his Jean, the loamy scent of earth and plant. In a house mostly made up of his memories, it was the lush sunroom, bursting with green, that was entirely Jean's. She staked this little corner of the vast space, setting down roots and cultivating something beautiful. She told him gardening was simply, that flowers were uncomplicated, but surrounded by the things she created, it felt like her very own magic.

"What's this?" He asked, pulling his attention from the blooms of her beloved begonias and fingering the wine glasses in front of him. A basket of bread and cheese sat beside it, burnished gold from a few strategically placed candles. Jean reached for his hand and tugged it into her lap, brushing her thumb over his knuckles.

Lucien met her gaze, pale eyes wide and wet and filled with understanding and sorrow. Of course she knew - knew him better than he often knew himself. She spent years sussing out the dark corners of him, breathing away the cobwebs, examining him and the way he worked. Her precision was near scientific; she studied and catalogued and learned. It was only later, when she confessed to loving him, that he realized it had been her heart, not her mind, that began the investigation.

Of course she had known he would return drained and sorrowful, despite his promises.

"It didn't seem a night for a celebration." Jean said simply, leaning to rest her head in the crook of Lucien's neck. He shuddered out another breath, this one more of a gasp. His emotions always simmered close to the surface but the events of the day had cracked what little resolve he had to keep them under control. He swallowed past the wet lump in his throat - past his failure as a husband and a father - and gripped Jean's fingers in return.

When he could speak again, his words were slow and heavy with his conflicting emotions. "I so very much want to marry you, Jean."

"But?"

"No but. I'm just…" He took another shuddery breath and Jean's lips against his neck steadied him. She was a solid presence and he wondered if she would ever tire of the way he needed her, and the ballast she offered simply by holding his hand.

"Sad. You're allowed to mourn the thing you lost."

"I lost them so long ago." Some part of him had believed that the divorce would be the last vestiges of his broken past dropping away, that he would feel 10 pounds lighter, floating on the high of the freedom to marry his Jean. However the Magistrate's solemn words, the dissolution of something he believed to be so distant in his past, struck him with unexpected depth. "But today it was…official."

"Yes. And I'm ready to start my life with you, Lucien, but we need to respect what you've lost. What we've lost." She drew away from him to pour the wine; it was the unopened bottle Henry sent them ages ago. She handed him his glass and nestled into his chest, curling into his side. They were both a product of their losses, shared and individually. It was the little fissures she found most fascinating about him, understanding that those cracks aligned with hers in a way that could not be explained. She felt closer to him in his grief than she sometimes felt in joy. Happiness was still something of a foreign concept to them both; simple survival had been their reality for lonely decades. And though she was ready - oh how she was ready - to begin that trek towards absolute joy, she knew it was important for them to take the time to make peace with the last of the grief.

They did not clink their glasses, did not toast the future, but sipped in silence, content to be near each other.

With the wine to loosen his tongue, Lucien told her of the day in fits and starts, often trailing off to sit in silence as he digested what had occurred. It was more difficult that he'd anticipated, having his past transgressions read, affectless, in court. Perhaps he wasn't exactly a drunk, perhaps he wasn't abusive. But there was enough truth in his letter to be uncomfortable. He felt a flare of anger at the quiet murmurs from the back row of the courtroom, understood the disbelieving tones, could sense the judgement of _Jea_ n in their hushed words. Without ever mentioning her name, she was still present in the room, carrying her own unfair share of blame for a blameless situation.

It was this, more than anything, that sapped him of his desire to celebrate. It was still Jean who would would bear the brunt of the condemnation for his divorce, in spite of everything. It felt cruel, then, to take her out on the town on his arm. No matter how proud (and boggled) he was that she consented to be his wife, someone would always be willing to diminish that...to diminish them...and make them out to be low and tawdry.

"You tried to kiss me in this room." Jean spoke at last, her voice drowsy.

"Several times, as a matter of fact. With various measures of success."

"The first time." She clarified, the smile evident in her tone.

She'd been crying, and he felt an overwhelming need to protect her, hold her, confess his feelings. For a moment she'd been terrified...then exhilarated. His fingers were warm as they cupped her neck.

The phone, the blasted phone, was what brought them to reality and she'd slipped away, shaken to the core by what had almost taken place.

He was her employer. She was his housekeeper. But it had been a seismic shift, the very foundation of their relationship adjusting to this new reality.

It had been just the beginning, and they had travelled so far in the years since.

"We're free." It was barely an exhalation and Lucien wasn't entirely sure it hadn't been the whisper of the wind. Then Jean's fingers tightened on his and she brushed her lips across his adam's apple scooting so she was almost in his lap. His arm wrapped around her shoulders and drew her in impossibly closer. Her warmth was consoling and when she spoke again, her voice was clearer.

"Lucien, we're free." She pressed her ear to his heartbeat. "Whatever they say now, it won't be true. You're divorced. I've left the church. We can be married."

Her voice wavered, the first hint of unsteady emotion, and he squeezed her shoulder. "We _will be_ married."

"March 25th, my darling." Lucien kissed her forehead and they swayed together a bit.

Jean's bubbling laughter was pure and bright. It seemed so impossible that, after all of it, they were finally there, on the precipice of something larger than the both of them. They had made an arduous journey and they stood atop the mountain of their shared experience and the vista that surrounded them was full of possibility.

When Jean spoke again, this time her voice was full of conviction and it made Lucien equal parts elated and afraid.

"We have _so much_ planning to do."


End file.
